Trays of lukewarm pasta sat on the counter, with the once pillowy ricotta and creamy mozzarella slowly solidifying around the mangled ziti. Day-old ciabatta sat on a cutting board, crumbs strewn about, with a half-eaten plate of chicken marsala resting on the stovetop — crimini mushrooms trapped in the now congealed sauce. Continue reading “on cooking through grief”→

The first time I heard the word, “ratatouille,” I was 14 years old and sitting on a cushioned movie theater seat, snug between my mom and my sister, watching the rat Remy come to life as an ambitious Parisian chef. I chose gummy bears a­­nd my sister, popcorn, and we sat next to each other to pass the snacks back and forth, enjoying the salty crunchiness of the popcorn and sweet chewiness of the candy.

Other than the hour or so of Pixar-animated entertainment, the movie didn’t make much of an impression on my young-teen mind. In fact, I barely thought about the story or the food again until six years had passed and I was sitting on a wobbly, white plastic stool in a tiny kitchen in Paris.Continue reading “when words failed, ratatouille didn’t”→

Mention Puglia to any Italian, and you’ll likely be greeted with an expression of sheer bewilderment — until, that is, they realize that what you’re actually trying to say (but butchering in exceptional fashion) is poo-lee-a.

But once it’s clear that you’re referencing the sun-drenched heel of Italy, you’ll be hard-pressed to get anyone to stop praising this relatively undiscovered region in the south.Continue reading “a taste of Puglia”→